The Colors of Enchantment

Wednesday, August 12, 2009 ~ Albuquerque, New Mexico

I don't know what it's like now, but when Toronto's Roy Thomson Hall opened in 1982, its architects were loudly criticized for the auditorium, which, to many, was bland and colorless -- a stark contrast to its bold exterior.

The designers countered that its neutral shades were to be a backdrop for the audience.

And it's true. Before the lights dim, the concert hall is itself a symphony of color, with those filling its seats the star attraction.

I thought of this this morning while out for my morning walk in the high-desert foothills behind my house. And I remembered the first time, in 2005, that I drove into New Mexico.

Until that point, the only other place I'd lived in the Southwest had been Sedona, with its thick stands of juniper always green against striking crimson cliffs. When on the wintry January day I first crossed the state line from Arizona, I was shocked by New Mexico's unrelenting dun. "Where's the color?" I cried, determined to hate this place that had pulled me into it so magnetically.

Turns out, they don't call this the Land of Enchantment for nothing. During my next two years of full-time travel, New Mexico was where I spent most of my off-road time. Yes, it was a comfortable driving distance from my daughter, still in Sedona. But there was more: a numinous quality that transcends logic or explanation, a magic that speaks to the soul of anyone open to it.

Today during my walk, yellows, fuschias, magentas, violets and whites spring from the colorless soil, all the more brilliant because of their neutral backdrop. It's as though the land, in a life-imitates-art version of Roy Thomson Hall, has muted itself in order to give its flowers top billing.

I love this place, especially the granite-studded Sandia Mountains that rise up behind my home.

New Mexico lacks the obvious beauty of other places I've lived -- Nova Scotia, Hawaii, Sedona. But, no less than those, it has seduced my spirit and will, no doubt, keep me here until it has had its way with me. And for now, walking among the flowers that always seem such a miracle here in the desert, I pay tribute to the generosity of a land that steps back to allow all that thrives in its dusty soil to be its star attractions.

Photos #1, #3, #4, #5 (c) 2009 Mark David Gerson: Desert flowers, Sandia foothills, Albuquerque, NM; Photo #2 Roy Thomson Hall interior, by Roy Thomson Hall

Car Talk

Friday, March 16 ~ Albuquerque, New Mexico

My car is quiet today. It hasn't said a word since...yesterday.


Over the past week, though, it has been incredibly and disturbingly vocal.

Just as my physical vehicle has been eloquently pointing things out to me in recent weeks (see Body Talk), my automotive vehicle has been similarly insistent.

No more subtle tuggings on the steering wheel, indicating where to go or which way to turn. Either its voice has matured or my intuitive system isn't quite as responsive these days.

It all began a week ago...

With Texas behind me, California beckons. A little R&R by the sea, I think. And after a quick stop in Sedona, I head south and west toward San Diego.

I'm on I-10 when suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, the car begins to rattle. It's one of those frustrating car things: it only rattles when I'm driving but, while driving, I can't tell where the rattle is coming from...other than it seems to be coming from the interior front.

When you drive a minivan filled with most of your worldly goods (some of which occasionally rattle), the first thing to do is secure anything that might be loose.

I do that.

The rattle, just to be contrary, grows louder.

By the time I get to San Diego, I'm rattled, concerned that something is serious wrong with the car.

San Diego, in the throes of March Break Madness, rattles me even more. Neither rested nor relaxed, I leave the next day, determined that if the rattle continues, I'll return to Sedona and have my car-expert friend Larry give it a listen.

It does, and I do.

And then it doesn't.

Once Larry is in the car, my Mercury makes a faint, half-hearted rattle then falls silent, never to rattle again (other than a faint, half-hearted rattle on the way out of Sedona the following day).

I could say that Larry's very presence stilled the rattle. And maybe that's true. He is pretty powerful.

I could also say that the car was making certain I returned to Sedona. Given all the emotional energy I've been working with around my former wife, who lives in Sedona (see Heart Open Wide), I'm guessing that as soon as the car got me to Sedona, it shut up, its primary aim having been achieved.

Once having tasted power, though, my Mercury seems reluctant to give it up.

Cut to yesterday.


I'm heading for Santa Fe after a powerful visit to Chaco Canyon. My plan is to take an indirect, potentially more scenic route and still arrive in Santa Fe in time to pick up my mail.

As I bump along the unpaved road out of the National Park, my Mercury sounds a warning chime. "Check tire pressure," the instrument panel proclaims.

Check tire pressure? These are brand-new tires!

Anxiously, I make my way to a more major road and stop at the first service station. My front passenger tire is low and I refill it.

Nervously, I drive on, watching the instrument panel for a repeat warning. None comes. But when I reach the intersection of Hwy. 550 and Hwy. 96, concerned about driving unpopulated back roads with an iffy tire, I choose the route of caution and take Hwy. 550, the more direct road toward Santa Fe.

Once again, it seems, Auto Knows Best.


As direct as Hwy. 550 is, it takes much longer than I expect (Hwy. 96 would have likely doubled my travel time and returned me long past my UPS Store's closing time). It's also infinitely more stunning than I could have imagined. As well, it carries me past the Sandia Mountains, which have been calling to me in recent days.

I arrive in Santa Fe, refreshed by the beauty, activated by the mountain energies and in plenty of time for mail pickup and dinner.

Truly, Auto Knows Best.

P.S. The tire-pressure warning has not reappeared.

Photos by Mark David Gerson: #1 Near Chaco Canyon, New Mexico; #2 Sandia Mountains, Albuquerque, New Mexico

Body Talk I

Thursday, March 15 ~ US-64, near Farmington, New Mexico


The local NPR station broadcasts a promo for a program segment about spring allergies. They're gonna be bad, the announcer says.

Oh, I say. That's why I've been experiencing such extreme allergic symptoms recently. Sneezing. Sniffles. Scratchy throat. Itchy eyes. Off and on for several weeks. It's been beyond uncomfortable.

And then I remember.

I'm in my hotel room in San Diego last week. I've just come from Sedona, where my allergy symptoms were intense.

Juniper? Well, yes, it is the season.

But it's more complicated than that.

Actually, it's simpler.

You see, as I'm sitting in my hotel room, I remember that my symptoms act up and are at their worst either when I'm in Sedona or when I've been talking to my former wife, who lives in Sedona.

Am I allergic to her?

No, of course not.

But allergies are a function of the immune system, which is designed to kick in when it senses a threat.

Recently, as issues around my ex-wife and our separation have come up for deeper healing (see Heart Open Wide), parts of me are feeling profoundly threatened.

Although from a higher perspective, betrayal does not exist, my human-child self knows only that he has been betrayed and must not trust.

It's not safe!!! he shouts. And feeling endangered, he calls in the troops. Shields up! he cries. Defenses up!

My immune system responds, with sneezes, sniffles, itches and scratches, trying to fight off the danger, as it has done throughout my life.

As a child, my immune system was very active. I had many allergies. I had many fears. The world didn't feel safe, wasn't safe.

Today, that child is once again frightened, once again reluctant to trust.

Today, though, a new strategy is called for. A new defense.

That defense can only come from a place of love, of trust, of forgiveness...all the emotions it feels too dangerous to embrace.

It feels too dangerous. Yet that danger is an illusion. I cannot fear an illusion. I dare not.


Sitting in my San Diego hotel room, the Pacific waves thundering on the beach beyond my window, I offer a new strategy, a new defense.

I open my heart in love, I say.

I open my heart in trust.

I open my heart in forgiveness.

And, finally: It's safe to open my heart...to trust...to forgive.

The symptoms don't dissipate immediately. Many years -- lifetimes, perhaps -- of patterning must dissolve. But as my words remind me of the truth, that truth gains power in my body and in my life.

It is safe. I am safe.

I continue my drive -- deeper into New Mexico, deeper into spring, deeper into allergy season. Deeper into my heart.

Photo by Mark David Gerson: Pacific Beach, San Diego, California

Sign of the Times IV

Thursday, March 1 ~ Truth or Consequences, New Mexico


The highway sign says it all...or almost...

I've always loved the name of this town in southern New Mexico....even if it comes from the famed quiz show. (The town's original name was Hot Springs.)

I love it because it reminds me that there are consequences when I don't walk in my truth, speak my truth and live in my truth...the truth of my highest expression...the truth of my Divinity.

It's not always easy to choose truth.

But when we don't, it's even harder to live with the consequences.